Welcome to Meaningful Words- Home of any and everything nonsensical!

My mind is blank because I slept too much today. I feel lethargic and tired. I’d better get some sleep.

She was so beautiful. I remember walking up to her and striking up a conversation. Pretty soon we exchanged numbers and some personal details. We really clicked. It didn’t take long before the love chemicals in my brain started to react. I asked if she would like to have dinner with me, and to my delight, she agreed. So I had a date that night. At 7.00pm, I went over to her place, and there she was waiting for me already. Another plus point for her for not making me wait an extra hour or two. I took her to a decent coffee house, and she actually knew which spoon to use when the mushroom cream arrived. One more plus point. We had a great dinner, and after that, we drove around town- it was not too early by then and the streets were pretty much deserted. I don’t know how it happened, but a while later, we wound up on a dark stretch on this road. Unknowingly, I stopped the car. If you were within a five-kilometre radius you would’ve heard my heartbeat when our eyes met; it was more than those normal ‘electricity eyes contacts’. This one felt like direct energy from three nuclear power plants. I guess she had anticipated what was going to happen soon, and from the her facial expressions, looked more eager than I did. I, too, thought I knew what was going to happen. Very gently, I stroked her hands, slowly making my way up to her forearms, and finally to her neck. I gave her a slight nudge to come closer, to which she willingly did. Now our faces were just inches apart. I gazed deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep deep into her eyes, all the while caressing her soft, long hair. I pulled her nearer. Soon, our lips were almost touching; I could almost taste it. I proceeded to close the final gap between us… and my alarm clock went off. Mightyfukkingring. By now, it should be enjoying the company of rats and creepy-crawlies in the landfills.

Nowadays, I use silent alarm clocks- alarm clocks that have no alarm and thus does not ring, which is why I am always late for duty. So stop giving me those late slips. I’m still waiting for the reoccurance of that episode in my dream.

A couple of weeks ago, my Biology class carried out dissection on old (dead for about one year), stiff, brittle-boned mice with discoloured internal organs and chloroform-filled blood vessels. Today, our batch of mice were finally ready for dissection. My friend Annie brought her camera along and was kind enough to let me take snapshots with it so that I can post it here and gross you out show you the entire process. Hey, I’m sure many of you never got to see the internal organs of a mouse in vivid detail before so this is your chance. =)

Unwilling participants of the annual "MMM - Massive Mice Massacre" event. These mice packed themselves in the far corner of the cage, trying to stay out of reach.

Cotton was dampened with chloroform, and placed in an enclosed jar (In case you didn’t know, chloroform is the stuff the bad guys in the movies put on handkerchiefs which are then placed over the nose of the victim to knock him or her out). The mice were then put in the jar, where they would pass out after a while (The larger ones about 40 seconds, and less than that for the smaller ones).

Mine was the smaller one; Annie had the larger one. A closer look at my mouse in the consecutive pictures. How peaceful they looked. Poor little creatures.

These pairs of seemingly affectionate hands were the very hands responsible for ripping out the innards of Mr. Mouse.

Four pins fastened the mouse to the dissecting tray. (Yes, it was a male). A small incission was made, and from it the skin was carefully cut open.

Which would make it look like this. My mouse had very thin muscle tissues, which is why you can see the internal organs. Notice the blood stains? They probably belonged to other mice, frogs, etc.

Full concentration. Picture is blurred because the photographer’s hands were shaking. Second picture shows a closed-up view of the process of making an incission in the muscle tissues.

And there you go. In the adjacent picture, the rib cage had been cut open and the liver pushed aside to reveal the stomach. And oh, just so you know, the mouse was pretty much alive and its heart was still beating. Did I mention it was still warm?

Snip, snip, snip. You can’t really make anything out of the bloody mess. Next picture shows the length of its small intestines. And yes I have a new hairstyle.

Isolated body parts. By now, I was already numb to the unpleasant smell of blood.

And finally, the remains of the once cute-and-cuddly sweetheart.

Well, there you have it. Took me more time trying to get the stupid blog editor to display the pictures correctly rather than typing the descriptions out. I hope no one sues me for animal cruelty..

I was looking for a parking lot. I was getting quite desperate because I was already nearly 30 minutes late for my class. Then, to my delight, a car reversed out of the perfect parking lot - shady area and near my destination. Happily, I gave a signal to turn in as the driver was backing out his car, and happily, an old man in this ancient car drove straight into the lot (I was at the opposite side of the road, so he had an edge). No amount of honking would get him to even look my way. He got out of his jalopy, closed the door - and in he went to the coffee shop. What I am trying to point out is:

1. He taught me the art of parking lot-snatching.
2. Which was a bad example to me, a young, innocent teenager.
3. But useful.
4. These are the kind of people who spend their entire day in the coffee shop, feet on the chair, loud burps and all, openly cursing and swearing at anything from the coffee to the butcher who overcharged them 20 cents, and all at the same time wondering why their sons are either in drug rehabilitation centres or serving time in prison, and why their daughters ran away from home 10 years ago with some fat, ugly rich men. Bad genes.
5. I spat on his car.
6. I tried to break his wiper, but I twisted my thumb instead.
7. I added two more scratches to the 3,873,840 scratch marks on his junk.
8. I got a ticket for parking at an illegal spot.
9. I got screwed by my dad.

*Demon takes over me*

Die, old man. Burn in hell with your ugly four-wheeled piece of metal crap. BURN. MuahahahahahAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.

*Demon leaves*

I forgive you.

I was just browsing through Friendster profiles, when, one by one, I found my old classmates’ profiles. I saw that most of them were attached, some even set their status as ‘married’. Wow, what the heck. These bunch of guys were the ugliest, nerdiest and lifeless zombie-geniuses and now they have spiky hair and a chick in their arms. What the heck. What the heck. Seems I’m the only one who’s single. What the heck. But seriously, what’s the rush, guys? There’s plenty of time to be heartbroken (LOL, I’m jealous) and more so for you to have your wad of cash drained like running water (I really am). Well, I definitely hope for the best for you guys, at least until after every major exam and undertakings, because if something goes wrong before that, you’ll screw your life up and end up cleaning toilet bowls for the rest of your life it’ll really have its toll on you and your dreams of being quack doctors, engineers and the like.

Since iMesh is sucky today and my porn Naruto has yet to finish downloading, I’ll talk about mosquitoes. With the exception of death and disease-causing species like Culex, Aedes and that bitchy one that causes your leg to swell up (google elephantiasis) after sucking nice warm blood off you (I think it’s Anopheles), the most (cost) effective way of ridding the less-harmful-more-irritating ones will be to let them have their fill. Just resist the itch for a while. When it’s full, it’ll wobble around in the air and will land on a surface because it has become too heavy. That is the time to strike. Whack. Then you can start scratching.

Someone who happened to be reading this said I was stupid and went on to introduce the aerosol spray to me. But you see, I love Mother nature. If half of the 6.2 billion people that now inhabit the earth use aerosol spray at every single mosquito they encounter, pretty soon there will be a big fat hole in the ozone layer. Consequently, everyone will get cancer and die. Unwilling to back out, he said I could use a fly-swatter or the infamous $10.50 battery operated racquet bug-shocker. I then revealed to him the reason he was always broke; he was constantly investing in those non-essentials, one spray after another, one flimsy racquet after another. Not to mention batteries. That did the job of ridding him.

Just for your viewing, the advanced stages of elephantiasis and the one of the three worm species responsible, B. Timori.

That’s it. Time for Naruto!

My, what a tiring day. I spent half the day rearranging and picking up my room. I even skipped lunch, something of which I can never resist. I went through old letters and photograhps. I cleared old textbooks and sent old documents for recycling. My room lost about 50kg today. However, there was an omnipresent substance that I kept finding everywhere and couldn’t completely get rid of: dust.

It was in my closed glass cabinet. It was between my covered keyboard keys. It was everywhere. I hope someone will patent a dust-eating robot pet soon. Anyway, I’ve gotta go now before the gastric juice burns a hole through my stomach.

Ciao!

My dad can be pretty funny sometimes. Today’s lecture topic was on being responsible and having self-discipline. Because I was trapped in the car with him on the way out for dinner, I had to turn on my internal radio full blast - The electric guitar and drums of the Linkin Park did a great job in shutting his voice out to a mere mumble. But anyway, there was this part that I heard in the intermission between two tracks. It was something regarding my addiction towards the computer. According to him, I shouldn’t have any problem tearing myself away from the machine because he had "lived his entire life without the computer". I guess that’s the difference between 1965 and 2005 and he didn’t quite realize that. I thought it was pretty unfair for him to say something like that. Well, I’ve lived my entire life without coffee too. I can also survive not reading the newspaper or tuning in to the news every single waking moment of my life. So can I conclude that he should have no problems doing those too? Well I know it’s for my own good, which is why I simply accepted his words (what else can I do?). I’m lucky my dad ‘overcares’ for me. Looking at it this way really lessens the frequency of arguments I have with him. But oh, does it get really irritating at times. Fuck. Grr.

PS: Immediate family members, close relatives, not-so-close relatives, friends and/or acquaintances of Mr Daddy who happen to stumble upon this little piece of information should not, in any manner, divulge it to him. If you fail to comply, I will track you down and I will kill you.

I just can’t seem to understand why people despise homosexuals. A 6-year friend of mine recently took courage to confess to me that he was gay and that he had interest in me. It was very brave and daring of him, because most people would probably be flinching in disgust even at the sight of a homosexual. All it took me was a gentle and frank reply that I was straight and my interest was strictly in girls only. That did it. No unkind words, no hatred- I can’t say no hurt, because he was gashed by the rejection, but at least I didn’t add insult to injury. Of course he took me by surprise, considering I had known him for almost 6 years and didn’t have the slightest hint that he was gay. Six years. Frankly, I wouldn’t have known if he didn’t tell me- which just proves that homosexuals can lead normal lives too. He later revealed to me how he was so confused and hurt by the way he was being treated by us ‘normal’ people - all with a tinge of anger. He didn’t want to be hated by people, and in his entire life, he wore an invisible people-pleaser mask for fear of rejection by us ‘normal’ folks. So who’s the real monster now?

Rockstar Games. The people behind the awesome Grand Theft Auto series. Their games contain a generous amount of violence, vulgarities, sexual content, and basically you are forced to commit crime in that game in order to advance the storyline: whether it’s popping someone’s head, burning down someone’s house, et cetera. I’ve finished two out of the three games and so far I have not killed my parents, raped anyone or detonated an explosive in a bus station. Why? Because the game is designed for players to have fun, not for them to learn new ways of bringing destruction to mankind. More accurately, it’s because I let my brain and reasoning function and I know that killing people is NOT cool.

But the thing is, there was this 15-year old asshole from Japan who played this game. I can’t see any connection between the homicide and the game, but anyway, he killed both his mommy and daddy because daddy "made a fool out of him" and mommy said she "wanted to die, and he felt sorry for her". Heck, if that was the case, my very own dad would’ve died a couple of times already. And what does he know about euthanasia? Anyway, he proceeded to bring his house down with a bunch of home-made explosives, and went to hide in a hot springs resort. Of course he was nabbed pretty soon after. When some of his friends were interviewed, they described him as "an average student who loves video games, including GTA". Bam. That did it. The media now directs the blame to the developers of the game, and he is now a "victim". Questions are shot at the team of developers like rounds from an M-16.

It’s utterly disappointing to see game sites propagating this fallacy. It just shows how misguided people are and choose to be. One million people play the game, one judgment-lacking idiot murders his dearest, the blame goes to the game.

I decide to begin my blog with anger and resentment.

Exams are total bullshit. Basically you cram 50,000,000 words and 300,000 diagrams into your damned brain and keep your fingers crossed that there won’t be any roadblocks in your brain on that day. If somehow something goes wrong, you can’t answer the question. You sit in the hall, contemplating your future as whatever low-classed rubbish picking asshole. In the world today, no paper qualifications = incompetent. I can’t believe your job prospect will be based upon whether you know who Parameswara was and how he ran away from his homeland with his hopeless bunch of henchmen, and even more so based on your ability to memorise a whole crapload of moral values and regurtitate them during the exam. And to make matters worse, the definitions must be in the exact words some hare-brained asshole put them in. For example, if "helpfulness" is defined as "willingness to aid someone in their distress or dilemma" and you happen to write it as "willingness to help someone who is encountering problems" then you are WRONG. Wrong wrong wrong. You get a nice big cross next to your answer and a big fat f**ked up 0 next to it. And if this happens frequently enough, you miss the grade. If you miss the grade, you’ll probably not get any scholarships and will be labelled by your parents as "incompetent, lazy and useless". Then you are blasted into Form 6, which is basically a hotter hell because you have to memorise basically five times the amount compared to two years ago. My teachers say that I shouldn’t memorise and try to "understand the concept" instead. My, what a cliché. Actually, they do not understand. It’s just that they’ve been stuck with their one subject for at least 20 f**king years. Yes, it’s actually so deeply embedded in their memory that they can’t forget the stuff even if they lose their memory. Heck, not even dementia and Alzheimer’s can rid those from their memory.

So what is the point in my very first blog, you ask? None, actually. I call these ramblings. I’m not gonna start my blog with "Hi AlL, THiS is mY fIrSt BloG, I am Not a ReTArD, I jUst ThInk MixInG UpPerCasE anD LowErCasE maKes mY StUff mOrE aPpEAlInG And EAsier To ReAd". I didn’t go through more than ten years of education to display my inability to punctuate correctly.